


Those Who Remember

by WahlBuilder



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Author accidentally feel'd themself, Death is thinking about the past, Game Spoilers, M/M, War is playing with swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they used to be, what they are, is an endless stream of memories.<br/>Death is thinking about what they had to sacrifice, and what they still have to lose. What <i>he</i> has to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Remember

Death admired his brother, and though he was unlikely to say it aloud, he was not afraid to admit it to himself.

He was perched on a thrumming piece of machinery. Creator only knew why War liked this world, one of the Makers’ works, left by its creators and those it had been intended to. It was, unlike other worlds crafted by the Makers, a metal world, all dark gleaming alloys and heavy and pungent smell of oil, hissing pistons pumping dark thick liquids down many tubes; clicking clockwork and cackling electricity. Everything hummed, thrummed, hissed, whispered, and trembled, from time to time.

It was almost deafening.

Sometimes, Death could catch a glimpse of wonder on War’s face looking upon the various machinery, and it threw Death right back into past times, the times they had lost millenia ago.

 

_The youngling looks over his works with open awe, gazing upon rows and rows of weaponry hung from the towering walls._

_And what master wouldn’t be pleased at such admiration?_

_‘I won’t wait for you all day, little brother.’ He feigns annoyance to hide just how much he is warmed by the youngling’s awe. Too much for his own liking._

_The youngling turns to him—a whirl of white, white hair, what is he, an Angel? doesn’t he know that long hair is a disadvantage in combat? should teach him a lesson, cut a lock or two, they are so pretty…—and blue-white eyes fall on the sword he’s holding to the young one._

_This sword, he is proud of. Let’s look at how much more proud he can get…_

_The youngling reaches for the grip, and for a moment his hand—big, so big—hovers over the sword, then closes with certainty._

_And the master is pleased, oh yes, so pleased and proud, and he wants to pretend it’s from his predictions and calculations being proven true—the form of the grip, the size, the balance as the youngling lifts the sword—but in truth, the truth is, the expression of astonishment on the youngling’s noble face is what hits him in the guts like a solid punch he can’t deflect._

_He chuckles, at his own stupidity and in an attempt to tease the youngling. He chuckles as he circles the huge, broad-shouldered form and stops behind him, noting the momentary tension of a warrior who always, always stays aware of his surroundings, never lets a foe get behind him… Is he a foe to the youngling?_

_Maybe._

_A little._

_He rests his own hand over the broad palm on the sword, feeling the bone and muscle underneath the skin, feeling the seductive whisper of the Chaoseater, so hungry, so very hungry. ‘Don’t you want to try it out? I can teach you a few lessons on how to handle a fine blade.’_

_He laughs when a low growl rolls over him in response, and the Chaoseater is forgotten as they stumble to the wall, a wrestling match and a proclamation of gratitude one of them wouldn’t express and the other wouldn’t openly take._

 

War had two faces, though he didn’t wear a mask, unlike Death.

One was this: the broad sweeping motions, the changing of attack angles, the languid but tight machinery of steps, the heaved breath—he was sturdy, solid but changing, his forms an ever-inventive flow of deadly strikes, elegant in their brutality, and watching him move like that, Death could see clearly the motions of the invisible foes War was fighting against, the shadows akin to those that danced on the walls, summoned from the quiet alliance between the flickering lamps encased in metal and War’s movement.

Eternally screaming faces on the Chaoseater oozed shadows, and light danced on War’s left arm.

It was, Death thought, telling something about him, the way his insides tightened whenever he saw that arm, a reminder of one facet of his brother’s nature, a reminder of their bond, a declaration of love and sacrifice.

He had studied many texts, scriptures, books, tapping in the well of accumulated wisdom and delusions of various creatures, and he knew the meaning of the words ‘holy’, ‘sanctity’, ‘divinity’, ‘sacrilege’. They prayed to no gods, turned away from the Creator who hadn’t sanctioned their birth.

But this, in the generous, deadly sweeps of a gargantuan sword, was their prayer—in mourning, in the name of.

 

_They change names throughout their lives. To go through one’s life with only one name, to assume that one is unchanging, that one is perfect as it is, is considered by his people—the people he has slain—a terrible kind of spiteful arrogance. Absalom wore this sin of pride like a badge of honour, and many followed in his name—his only name._

_‘War’, his brother has chosen for himself, and under these new names they will be know now and forever, a badge of shame._

_It suits his brother; too often he was overlooked, hulking and one of the youngest—but it was him who had laid out a plan to ambush their people, a plan so murderous and suicidal, and yet, played to the tiniest detail exactly as he—War—had laid it out._

_The name suits him—but now, shaking with dry sobs in Death’s arms, he is a nameless Nephilim, one of the last._

_‘They are dead.’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘We killed them.’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘We are the last.’_

_Death runs his fingers through War’s white hair, brushes kisses like blessings over his head, and promises to himself that he will destroy the whole Creation before anyone hurts his brother again._

 

Another face was this: the cunning, quick mind, the authoritative tone, the straight poise, the memory holding countless, endless details and battlefields and positions and angles and advantages—he was a tall figure in the battle, the one hand holding all the reigns and webs of careful planning, his will dominating but not oppressive, the fire in him igniting others like dry twigs, and watching him be like that, Death smiled, for it was their enemies’ doom incarnate.

He was well-known, oh yes, among the Legions of Hell and Heaven alike, across the worlds, beyond the Realms; he was feared, the Rider of War.

It was a twisting sort of thrill, watching him command armies with the same quiet and sturdy ease he commanded his body.

True, Death was the eldest, the chief of the Four—the king of the dead, the keeper of the vanished, protector of the last,—but it was a wisdom to know when you should step away and let the best take charge.

And if Death liked when that same commanding voice gave orders in private spaces, well, that wasn’t for anyone else to know.

 

_Watching his brother trying to control his temper and tethering on the verge of failing in this task is fascinating, exhilarating, and being a counterpoint to it, all relaxed posture and calm, adds flavour to it still._

_‘I said, wait for my signal! And what did you do?’_

_Death licks his lips under his mask, noting how blue-white eyes flicker at the concealed motion. ‘I leapt into the fight right away.’_

_The breaking point—and a roar shakes the surrounding trees as Death rolls out of War’s reach and War follows the motion,—and Death lets himself get pinned to the grass, and its sharp scent and the stains it will no doubt leave on the back of his tunic, oh, everything, he savours it, everything: the heavy body on top of him, trapping him to the point of fighting for every breath, the reek of the recent battle still clinging to them both, the blazing, incandescent flame in War’s eyes, holding him in place even more effectively than his body does._

_And it almost becomes his own breaking point when a hand—the right one, smaller and more delicate,—hovers over his mask, and the question is written on his brother’s face._

_Death’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs as the mask is lifted to reveal his face, his true face._

 

Lost in thought, he didn’t realise the thudding of steps and the whooshing of the blade had stopped. He blinked, and smirked. ‘You should at least throw a shirt on. Not that I object—quite the contrary, I object even to you wearing the pants,—but Fury would get, ah, furious.’

‘You are no better yourself.’

It was true. Death leaned back on his elbows, content with his state of dress—or undress, since he was wearing nothing, not even his mask, and War’s tunic was spread under him over the metalwork. ‘We still have time. Though if you’d rather practise with your beloved sword…’ He leaned forward again just to make a generous sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Be my guest.’

‘I’d rather,’ War growled, but there was no menace behind it—though his soft, predatory steps looked very menacing, ‘practise with a different sword.’ He closed the final steps between them, wearing the aroma of oil and metal on his skin.

‘Again, be my guest,’ Death murmured and sighed, wrapping his arms around War’s tight torso, drinking in his blazing heat.

They still had time.


End file.
